


As I Am Bahamut, You Are Iskander

by de_corporis



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Background Noctis/Luna - Freeform, Imperial Prompto, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Noctis is kind of a jerk, Problematic Relationships, Prompto is basically Helen of Troy, bedroom politics, morally ambiguous noctis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-30 04:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12646506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/de_corporis/pseuds/de_corporis
Summary: Noctis thought of sunlight on golden hair, vivid purple-blue eyes, and freckles scattered teasingly across pale skin. Then he thought of the indomitable strength of will it took to relinquish one’s familial power to a foreign nation without flinching, to stand and listen as the multitudes cheered for a new ruler. He knew with absolute, bone-deep certainty that there was no one else in all of Eos that he would take as his Prince Consort. No one else was worthy.





	1. First Impressions

Noctis made his ceremonial entry into Gralea on the twelfth day of Januarius just as the sun reached its zenith. It was a glorious winter’s day. A gentle snow had fallen over the capital the night before, covering everything in a coat of sparkling white, and the sky was a brilliant shade of blue. It was also so bitterly cold that Noctis’ breath steamed in front of his face, and he could barely feel the tips of his fingers despite the fur-lined gloves he was wearing. It took all of his willpower to stride forward with his shoulders back and his head held proudly upright, as though he didn’t feel the chill, rather than hunkering down into his furs and shivering like a newly-hatched chocobo.

He’d wanted to ride in the Regalia. It would have been warm, and the car would have made a sufficiently grandiose impression. But five-hundred and thirty-six years ago, Marius, first Emperor of the Alercapt Dynasty, had marked his ascension to the throne by walking from the City Gates to Zegnautus Keep, and every Niflheim Emperor since had literally followed in his footsteps.

Noctis argued that he was King of Lucis before anything else and therefore didn’t need to bend to Niflheim custom, but Ignis wouldn’t hear of it.

“We want to be seen as a force of benevolent change in Niflheim,” he’d said, peering sternly at Noctis from behind his glasses. “Not conquerors running roughshod over an already downtrodden nation. That means we respect as many of their traditions as we can. So you will walk, Your Majesty, and do make sure to smile.”

It would take a braver man than Noctis to argue with Lucis’ Chief Strategist when he used that particular tone of voice. It was promptly announced that the dawn of a new era in Niflheim would be proclaimed with all of the traditional ceremonies.

So here he was, making his way through the streets of Old Gralea with a phalanx of Niflheim troops marching in front of him and an honor guard comprised of Lucian Crownsguard following behind. Most of the city had come out to watch, despite the chill in the air. He could sense no hostility in the Gralean citizens as he passed by, only a certain sort of tense wariness. The long years of war had left the people of Niflheim weary and hungry, and there was little love lost between Iedolas Aldercapt and his erstwhile subjects. Now they were waiting to see what kind of ruler Noctis would be.

He wanted to be a good one. The people of Niflheim were his people now, and he had no desire to be a despised conqueror. He would rather be loved.

It was only two miles from the Old City Gates to the hulking fortress of Zegnautus Keep, but the procession’s glacial pace meant that it took the better part of two hours. By the time Noctis finally stood at the base of the worn stone steps leading up to the Keep, he was sure his extremities would never be warm again. He wanted nothing more than a hot bath, a stiff drink, and his bed piled high with blankets; but his father had taught him the importance of political theatre, and this moment was political theatre at its finest.

He was Noctis Lucis Caelum, the one-hundred-and-fourteenth monarch to sit the Lucian throne, the King who had brought Niflheim to its knees, and he had come to accept the surrender of its Emperor. No matter what else he accomplished in his reign, this would be the moment that defined him, and all of Eos was watching.

The procession came to a halt. Noctis’ escort arranged itself into neat rows, Niflheim on the left and Lucis on the right, and Noctis ascended the steps alone. 

Iedolas Aldercapt and his entourage awaited him at the top. When Noctis had last seen him, he had been an imposing figure, tall and unbowed despite his advanced years, his eyes stern and sharp. Now, he looked as though every one of his eighty years weighed heavily upon him. He was hunched over, leaning heavily on his cane, and his dull eyes were ringed with shadows. The final years of the war had not been kind to him. He had lost his oldest son, Crown Prince Loqi, the love of his people, and finally his throne; now he was handing the last remnants of his power to a conqueror. 

Yet there was still some dignity left. He was dressed in gray robes - the color mourning in Niflheim, as it was the color of the ashes left on the funeral pyres of their dead - and if he felt the cold, he gave no sign of it. No matter what else Aldercapt was, he was a scion of one of Eos’ ancient royal houses, and he knew how to carry the burdens of royalty.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, Noctis saw a flash of defiance in the former Emperor’s eyes. Then his shoulders drooped, and he bowed deeply from the waist.

“Your Radiance,” he said, yielding the traditional Imperial greeting to Noctis.

Noctis inclined his head. “My Lord.”

Aldercapt closed his eyes for a moment. Then he reached up with his left hand and slowly pulled the Imperial pendant over his head. It was a cumbersome thing: two dragons, one made of silver, one of gold, holding an immense blood red ruby between their talons. The gem had once adorned of sword of Marius, one of the legendary Emperors of Niflheim, and it had been a symbol of Imperial power for centuries.

The pendant swayed in the air between them, the ruby sparkling in the sun. The world held its breath. Then Aldercapt’s strength abandoned him. His knees buckled and he staggered to the side. The pendant flew out of his trembling fingers and skittered across the stone.

A shocked gasp rippled through the onlookers. Noctis stepped forward, unsure if he should offer to help or not. But before he could do anything, a slim, blonde-haired young man from Aldercapt’s entourage darted forward and caught the old Emperor’s arm, bearing him gently up. 

“Is he all right?” asked Noctis. He felt helpless and awkward, unsure what to do with his hands.

Neither of them answered. They clung to each other for a moment, caught up in a private tableau that Noctis had no part in. Their heads were bent close together, one white and one blonde, and Noctis heard a few snatches of softly murmured Gralean. After a moment the blonde disentangled himself, his movements slow and reluctant, and lifted the pendant off of the icy stones of the Keep. He held it for a moment, curling his fingers around the dragons, and Noctis saw his shoulders tremble. Then he took a deep breath and turned to Noctis, raising the jewel to slip it over Noctis’ head.

Noctis wasn’t even looking at it. He only had eyes for the young man in front of him.

One of Lucis’ most famous myths, and one Noctis knew well, was the story of Iskander and Bahamut. Iskander was a youth who lived in the age when the Astrals still roamed Eos and the great civilization of Solheim was at its height. He was the child of humble chocobo ranchers who raised birds for the noble families of Succarpe, but although he was of common blood, he was exceptional in every way. His hair was the color of spun sunlight, his eyes were the exact shade of the western ocean at twilight, and the sound of his voice could tame even the most fierce behemoth. But Iskander was not only beautiful. He also had a gentle soul, with a deep capacity to love, and he delighted in all the wonders of Eos, from the humblest garulet to the most magnificent griffon.

Iskander’s beauty and charm were so great that they attracted the attention of the Draconian Himself, Bahamut of the Hundred Swords. One evening, while Iskander was tending to his herd, Ifrit appeared to him in a blaze of glory and offered the youth His heart. At first Iskander was frightened in the face of such Glory, but the Draconian removed his fearsome armor, and he won the youth’s heart.

But the Draconian was not the only one who desired Iskander. The greatest lord in Succarpe happened to glimpse Iskander when he was out riding his chocobos and was immediately consumed by lust. Before the fortnight was out, his soldiers kidnapped Iskander and dragged him back to the manor, where the lord bound them forcibly in marriage. It was said that Iskander wept so many tears on his wedding night that from that day forth, all the creeks and rivers in Succarpe flowed with salt water.

When the Draconian heard His beloved’s cries, His rage burned even hotter than the Infernian’s flames. He swept down upon the manor clad in His battle armor and surrounded by His phalanx of blades, and he slaughtered the lord and all of his retainers. He ground their bones into the dirt and poisoned the wells with their blood, and nothing grew there again.

Then Bahamut swept Iskander into the Astral realm, where they lived in bliss until Iskander’s mortal life came to an end. And when Iskander finally breathed his last, the Draconian lifted his body into the heavens, where it turned into the brightest stars in Eos’ sky.

Now, as Noctis looked at the youth before him and saw his golden hair, his blue-violet eyes, the graceful curve of his lips, and thought, _This is Iskander in the flesh._

Then the weight of the pendant settled around Noctis’ neck, snapping him out of his reverie. The blonde bowed to deeply to him. When he stood back up, his face was as smooth and stern as marble. 

“Your Radiance,” he said. 

Noctis turned and faced his city. He spoke the traditional Oath of Ascension - he’d practiced it for hours, Ignis making him repeat the cumbersome syllables of Old Gralean until they rolled smoothly off of his tongue - and as soon as the last word left his lips, his escort raised their weapons to salute him as Emperor of Niflheim. A roar of acclamation rose from thousands of throats, but Noctis barely heard it. 

All he could think of was the youth standing behind him.

* * *  
Being formally installed as the new Emperor of Niflheim was only the beginning, of course. There was still a daunting list of practicalities that needed to be addressed before Noctis could return to Lucis - the conditions of Aldercapt’s retirement, the dismantling of Imperial bases in Tenebrae, the matter of reparations, to name only a few - and that meant there was no real time to celebrate his ascension as Emperor. The day after the ceremony he was rudely awakened by Ignis entering the Imperial quarters and tearing the covers off of the bed, letting a rush of cold air jerk Noctis into sudden wakefulness.

“Good morning, Your Radiance,” said Ignis, sounding disgustingly cheerful. “It’s time to get dressed. We have a meeting with Lord Aldercapt in two hours.”

Noctis squinted up at the large windows. There was a faint tinge of grey-blue light on the horizon, but the sky was otherwise still dark. He groaned. 

“‘S too early.”

“On the contrary. We have just enough time. Now get in the shower.”

Noctis pulled himself slowly into a sitting position and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Where’s Gladio when I need him to protect me?”

“He’ll be meeting with the Gralean special forces this morning. And besides that, he knows better than to get in my way. Now get moving.”

When it came to direct orders from Ignis Scientia, resistance was futile, even if you were a king. With one last groan, just to make sure his advisor knew how displeased he was, Noctis vanished into the bathroom.

By the time he emerged he felt a little more human. Even better, Ignis had managed to conjure up a breakfast of coffee and a mix of savory and sweet pastries. The pastries were clearly from the imperial kitchens, but Ignis had brewed the coffee himself. No one how to make coffee quite like he did - strong enough to wake the dead without being overly bitter - and by the time they were making their way through the Palace’s labyrinthine corridors toward the Council Chambers, Noctis was sufficiently awake that he didn’t fumble the slim folder that Ignis passed him.

“Today’s briefing?” he asked. 

“In a manner of speaking.” 

“Oh?” Noctis opened it, and his breath caught in his throat. Right before his eyes was a picture of the young man who had bestowed the Imperial pendant on him. It was clearly a formal portrait of some kind - he was dressed in the ceremonial red and burgundy robes of the Niflheim royal family, and his expression was serious. The opulence of his attire almost threatened to overwhelm the delicacy of his features, and no photograph could capture the vibrancy of his eyes or the exact way his pale skin warmed in the sunlight, but it was impossible not to notice his almost ethereal beauty. Iskander, indeed.

“His name is Prompto,” said Ignis. “Aldercapt’s son by his second wife. He turned twenty-one a few months ago.”

Noctis remembered hearing about Aldercapt’s second marriage. The woman had been nearly thirty years his junior, something that was the butt of more than a few jokes among the Lucian late-night talk show hosts. And yes, there had been reports that the woman had given birth to a child, but the baby hadn’t made any sort of grand entrance onto the imperial stage. “For a Prince, he hasn’t been in the public eye very much.”

“True,” said Ignis. “From what I’ve heard, Aldercapt adored his Lady Freya, but she cared little for the intrigues of the Imperial court. When she found out she was pregnant, she begged him to let her raise him away from Gralea. The Lady died giving birth to him, and Aldercapt chose to honor her wishes regarding her son. Loqi was already established as Crown Prince by then, so he saw no harm in it. Prompto was installed as Duke of the Silberberg province rather than a Prince of Niflheim, and he was an infrequent visitor to the capital during his formative years.”

Noctis let the folder fall shut. “I guess Aldercapt didn’t care for him much.”

“On the contrary. The former Emperor made the trip to Silberberg as often as he could in order to spend time with his son. By all accounts he loved him very much. Loqi was the heir he needed, but Prompto was the child he delighted in.”

“And the child who survived the war,” murmured Noctis. He glanced sideways at Ignis. “You managed to find all of this out in one night?”

“I may have been investigating him earlier.” The imposing doors that led to the Council Chambers were just ahead, and Ignis set his hand on Noctis’ arm to stop him.

“Majesty. Noctis. If I may.” Ignis took a deep breath. You have been married to Queen Lunafreya for nearly eleven years, Crown Princess Stella is six, and the position of Second Consort is still vacant. I believe it would be wise to consider Lord Prompto.”

And oh, Noctis _had_. Last night he’d lain in the extravagantly large bed, adrenaline from the ceremony still coursing through his veins, and touched himself, all the while imagining that he had that lithe, beautiful blonde boy spread out beneath him. He would like nothing better than to take Prompto back to Lucis as his _husband_. But he kept his face fixed in a mask of polite interest as he turned to his advisor.

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Ignis began to tick points off on his fingers. “First, entering into a union with the son of the former Emperor will be a powerful symbol of peace. Second, even if he was not raised as a Prince, Prompto understands what is expected of royalty. Aldercapt did not want him to attend yesterday’s ceremony, but he insisted on being there. He said it was his duty as a scion of the Aldercapt dynasty to be present when the Empire passed out of their control.”

“Astute of him,” murmured Noctis, remembering slender hands settling the weight of the Imperial pendant around his neck.

“Indeed,” said Ignis. “And finally...it would not be a bad match. In fact, it would be a good one. He is only ten years younger than you. He is intelligent and well read, and I’ve heard that he has a deep love of the arts. He also cares deeply for the people of Silberberg, and my sources tell me that he is well-loved by them in return.” Ignis paused for a moment. “And he is, as they say, easy on the eyes. Remarkably so.”

It was a good thing that a decade on the Lucian throne had taught Noctis how to avoid blushing. “How long have you been looking into this, exactly?”

Ignis shrugged. “I’ve always had contacts among Niflheim’s nobility. You know that.” He kept his gaze fixed intently on Noctis. “Then shall your marriage to Prompto should be the first matter of discussion?”

Noctis thought of sunlight on golden hair, vivid purple-blue eyes, and freckles scattered teasingly across pale skin. Then he thought of the indomitable strength of will it took to relinquish one’s familial power to a foreign nation without flinching, to stand and listen as the multitudes cheered for a new ruler. He knew with absolute, bone-deep certainty that there was no one else in all of Eos that he would take as his Prince Consort. No one else was worthy.

But of course he’d known that the second he’d seen Prompto.

"Yes," he said. "Of course."

When they entered the Council Chamters Aldercapt was already there, seated at a polished wooden table with the Imperial crest carved in the center. He was flanked by two other high-ranking Niflheim nobles; Noctis recognized them as Verstael Besitihia, the Imperial Science Officer, and Caligo Uldor, the Chief General. All three men rose their feet as Noctis entered.

“Good morning, Your Radiance,” said Aldercapt. His eyes were dull with exhaustion. “I trust you slept well.”

“I did.” Noctis and Ignis sat down; the other men followed suit. No one spoke. The silence stretched out between them, tense and awkward, full of unspoken anger and resentment.

Noctis was the one who finally broke it. He leaned back in his chair, as casually as if he were in his private quarters in the Citadel, and smiled benignly at Aldercapt.

“I was hoping your son would be joining us.” 

Aldercapt’s hands tightened into fists, but his face remained carefully neutral. “I’m sorry to disappoint you. Prompto is on his way back to Silberberg as we speak.”

“That’s unfortunate,” said Noctis. “Considering that our business today concerns him.”

“And what manner of business could you possibly want with my son, Your Radiance?” Aldercapt practically spat the title at Noctis, turning it into a thinly veiled insult.

Noctis kept his smile in place. “Marriage, of course.” 

The effect was instantaneous. A spark kindled in Aldercapt’s eyes and his lips compressed into a thin line. He fixed Noctis with the same glare that had once made the Niflheim rank and file tremble with fear. “Marriage,” he said, low and ominous.

“One of royalty’s most effective diplomatic tools," said Noctis. "And so in the interest of reinforcing the new connection between our nations, I request that your son, Prompto, Duke of Silberberg, be joined to me in marriage.”

“You insult me,” snapped Aldercapt. His hands were clenched so tight that Noctis could see them trembling. “You insult me, and you insult my son!”

Noctis fixed Aldercapt with a glare of his own. “I am King of Lucis and Emperor of Niflheim,” he said, his voice colder than the Glacian’s breath, and felt a momentary spike of satisfaction when he saw the three men flinch. “What I am offering is hardly an insult. It’s an honor.”

Aldercapt laughed, sharp and bitter. “An honor,” he said. “An honor to take my son from me and turn him into...turn him into a concubine, nothing more than a bedwarmer for when you’d rather not visit your Queen -”

“ _Enough_ ,” snapped Noctis. “You insult me, you insult Queen Lunafreya, and you insult your son. Tread carefully.”

Ignis leaned forward. “The position of Prince or Princess Consort is not ceremonial, nor does it revolve around bedroom duties. The Consort is a full member of the royal family, outranked only by the sovereign, the King or Queen Consort, and the heir. Upon his marriage to Noctis, Prompto will be expected to take on all the responsibilities of the royal family and will be fully involved in the political affairs of Lucis.”

Aldercapt shook his head. “You can have anyone you want,” he said. “Anyone in all of Eos. And yet you demand my son, my Freya’s only child, the last treasure left to me…” His voice broke and the fight fled from his body, just as it had at the ceremony, leaving him old and tired. “Let him stay here, with me. Let him be with those who love him.” 

Uldor shifted, clearly uncomfortable at seeing his former Emperor so openly vulnerable, but the look Besitihia gave Noctis was measured and appraising. “Tell me,” he said, “how exactly does Niflheim benefit from this marriage? You are already Emperor. What does marrying Prompto Aldercapt do, other than deprive his father a bit of comfort in his old age?”

“Consider it a promise,” said Noctis. “Marrying me will make Prompto Lucian royalty. That sends a message that Niflheim is not a subjugated vassal state.” He gestured toward Ignis. “Count Scientia explained that Lucian Consorts are not court ornaments; they play an active role in the politics of the kingdom. As my husband and a member of royal family, Prompto will have more power to act on behalf of his homeland than he would if he stayed here as the son of deposed Emperor.”

“Ah,” said Besithia. He drummed his fingers against the table, and exchanged a quick glance with Uldor. “Your Radiance, perhaps you would grant us the room?”

“Of course.” Noctis rose to feet with Ignis beside him. “Take as much time as you need. We’ll be in the Midgard Room when you’ve finished.”

The Midgard Room was Noctis’ favorite room in the imperial palace. Like the Citadel, everything in the palace was done on a grand scale - soaring ceilings, immense pillars, long corridors that stretched out into the distance - that was designed to intimidate petitioners to the royal family. The Midgard Room, however, had been the personal study of Empress Byrnhild, who ruled Niflheim two hundred years earlier, and it was small and intimate. It had a wood-burning fireplace, squashy couches and armchairs that were comfortable instead of ornate, and immense windows that offered a spectacular vista of Gralea and the surrounding mountains.

Noctis gazed out at the view, Ignis at his side. Outside of the ancient city center, Gralea was a marvel of modern industrialization: a man-made jungle full of metal spires reaching toward the sky, glittering glass towers with sharp edges, and an elevated train that raced between all of them. It was a sharp contrast to Insomnia’s more traditional architecture, but Noctis thought he could learn to love it.

It was his city now, after all.

“So,” said Noctis after they’d stood in silence for a moment. “Think they’ll agree?”

“Well.” Ignis adjusted his glasses, a tick he’d acquired as a young boy and had never really grown out of. “Aldercapt isn’t thrilled by the idea, but that’s to be expected. But Besithia is a pragmatist, and I suspect he’ll be able to win over General Uldor. Between the two of them, they should be able to persuade Aldercapt.”

“You think so?”

Ignis shrugged. “Even if he was never granted the title of Prince, he is still royalty. An arranged marriage was always a possibility for him.”

“I suppose.” Noctis had been nineteen when he was told of his own impending nuptials. He was summoned to a formal audience in the great Throne Rome where his father announced that, in order to solidify an alliance between Lucis and Tenebrae against Niflheim, Noctis would be married to Princess Lunafreya within the month. No one ever asked Noctis what his thoughts on the matter were. He was just expected to smile, bow his head in acceptance, and be at the altar, which was exactly what he’d done.

He hadn’t minded, not really. He’d met Luna as a child when his father made a state visit to Tenebrae, and the two of them had remained in fairly regular contact over the years. By the time they were teenagers, both of them were aware that a betrothal was a distinct possibility. And if neither of them felt the powerful stirrings of romantic love, or the blazing fire of physical passion, that was all right - they had affection and respect, and that was more than could be said for most arranged marriages, especially a first marriage. There was an unofficial saying in the Lucian royal circle that the First Consort was for the Crown and the Second Consort was for the Heart - marry first for the good of Lucis, then for the good of your soul.

Prompto would probably have been married off to one of the higher-ranking Gralean nobles, or perhaps a member of Accordo’s Great Families. He wouldn’t have lacked for suitors, not with his combination of royal blood and striking good looks. He would have made a fine adornment for a stately, well-appointed mansion, the perfect husband for a wealthy lord or lady of discerning taste.

 _The way he’ll make a perfect husband for you_ , whispered a nasty little voice in Noctis’ head. He squashed it.

“And besides that,” said Ignis, cutting into Noctis’ reverie, “you are the Emperor. You don’t need them to agree to anything." He turned away from the window. "But enough of that. I’ll call for some more coffee, and we’ll go over the strategies for withdrawing the Lucian troops.”

It was nearly an hour later when the door to the Midgard Room burst open and Aldercapt stalked in, followed by Besithia and Uldor. The former Emperor made straight for Noctis and stood there for a moment, staring down at him. A symphony of emotions played across his face: anger, bitterness, sorrow; then it settled into a sort of miserable helplessness. He nodded once, a marionette jerking its head, then turned and left with as little fanfare as he’d come.

And Noctis knew he’d won his prize.

* * *  
Once the contract was signed and sealed he could have returned to Insomnia, back to his Queen and his child, but Noctis chose not to. He wanted to see Prompto again, and speak to him just once before Prompto came to Lucis for the wedding.

The ducal manor of Silberberg was only two or so hours away from Gralea, but it felt much farther. Their train sped among mountains whose snowy slopes were covered with ancient pine forests, rivers that thundered through rocky gorges with fearsome power even in the depths of winter, and frozen lakes that gleamed like the finest Accordan glass. Other than the train tracks, there were no signs of industrialization. The landscape had been left wild and untamed, exulting in its own harsh beauty, and Noctis couldn’t help but be thrilled by it. It called to something deep inside of him, a hidden part of his soul that chafed at the suffocating constraints of kingship and dreamed of venturing out into the wilderness to learn what it meant to be free.

Once they reached the tiny Silberberg train station, a car was waiting to take them even higher into the mountains. The forest grew denser and denser as they navigated the serpentine curves of the narrow road, and the light grew dim. Noctis remembered the old Niflheim legends that said the veil between the world grew thin in the shadows beneath the ancient pine trees, and couldn’t help wondering if there was a certain measure of truth in them.

Gladio was either unaware of or unperturbed by the local folklore, and looked out at the scenery with obvious appreciation. “Wouldn’t mind camping here in the summer,” he said. “Bet it’s real nice. Probably some good fishing spots, too.”

“Yeah,” said Noctis, a bit wistful. He hadn’t gone fishing in years, not since his father’s death and his ascension to the throne. “Bet there are.”

“Worry about that later,” said Ignis. “We’ve arrived. Noctis, run this comb through your hair. You want to make a good impression on your husband-to-be.”

“He’s already seen me,” grumbled Noctis, but he took one last moment to make sure he looked every inch a king before he stepped out of the car to greet his betrothed.

Only Prompto wasn’t there. He was greeted instead by the most intimidating person he had ever seen: a tall, silver-haired woman who looked like a statue of Shiva come to terrifying life. She carried herself like the most distinguished members of the Crownsguard did, with a sort of relaxed readiness that meant she could spring into action as easily as breathing.

“Your Radiance.” There was an unmistakable hint of mockery in her tone, but she held her bow for the exact length of time demanded by imperial etiquette. “Aranea Highwind, former Commodore of the Imperial army turned personal guard to Duke Prompto. It’s my pleasure to welcome you to Silberberg.”

“Thank you.” It was even colder here than in the capital, and Noctis was already trying not to shiver. “I was expecting to see the Duke himself.”

Aranea shrugged. She was wearing fewer layers than Noctis, but the cold didn’t seem to bother her. “His Lordship is riding his chocobo. He hates to stay indoors when the weather is nice.”

“Yes, of course,” said Noctis, painfully aware of the small tremors wracking his body. “But surely he knew when I would be arriving.”

“It’s easy to lose track of time when you’re out in the fresh air.” There it was again, that faintly mocking tone. “But he should be back soon. You’re welcome to wait inside the house, if you’re cold.” Her gaze roamed across Noctis’ heavy overcoat and thick scarf, and it was a struggle not to squirm. “Or you can try and be at the stables when he gets back. It shouldn’t be too much longer.”

The idea of catching Prompto off guard, before he had the chance to hide behind the mask of Niflheim royalty, was an appealing one. “Where are the stables?”

“Down that way.” Aranea gestured toward a neatly kept path that ran alongside the sprawling manor house before vanishing behind a hillock. “It’s about a ten minute walk.” 

“My thanks.” Noctis nodded and set off down the path, the others trailing a short distance behind him. 

Even in the harsh grip of winter, the manor was undeniably beautiful. It was situated on alpine meadow completely surrounded by the lofty, snow-covered peaks that gave the duchy of Silberberg its name. The immense forest covering the lower slopes swept all the way to the edge of the meadow, and when Noctis breathed deep, the air tasted like pine needles and snow.

All he could hear was his own breath, the crunch of snow beneath his boots, the sighing of the trees as the wind rustled their branches. This was its own world, completely isolated from the frantic energy generated by humans crammed together in cities, and Noctis felt a wave of peace run through him.

Maybe they would come here in the summer: Luna, Stella, Prompto, and himself. It would be warm, but not swelteringly hot the way summers in Insomnia tended to be, and the four of them would sit under the sun and have picnics on the meadow. 

“Kweh,” called a chocobo from somewhere nearby.

Noctis reached the top of a low ridge and looked down at a pair of sturdy wooden buildings set against the forest’s edge. Next to them was a large, well-kept pen where a group of five chocobos was playing, chasing each other with outstretched wings before nestling in close to groom crests and wings. They were smaller than the birds in the Citadel stables, and the pale color of their feathers was clearly the result of living in a snowy climate. They were also hardy beasts - the cold didn’t seem to bother them at all, and they seemed to take a special joy in plunging into the deeper snow drifts.

A number of neatly-defined riding paths stretched away from the stables and into the forest, and as Noctis watched, a white chocobo emerged from beneath the trees. Noctis was too far away to make out the rider’s face, but he was sure it was Prompto.

“That’s him,” said Aranea from behind him. “Perfect timing.”

“I’ll go on alone,” said Noctis. “Wait for me here.”

He walked briskly down the hill, veering away from the path to cut across the fields. Prompto saw him and stopped for a moment, then continued onward at a stately trot. He was an excellent rider, his body following his bird’s movement as easily as if they were one creature. Even though Noctis had learned to ride as a child, the most that could be said for him was that he was competent; Prompto, however, rode with grace and ease, like he was meant to see the world from on top of a chocobo.

When they were close enough to see each other clearly, Prompto brought his mount to a halt and watched Noctis approach. The winter air had tinted his cheeks pink, and a few strands of blonde hair had escaped from his hat to frame his face. He looked perfectly at home here, on his beautiful snow white bird with the forest at his back, and Noctis couldn’t help feeling like an interloper.

But he couldn’t let Prompto know that. “You ride very well,” he said as he closed the last bit of distance between them. “And your chocobo is magnificent.”

“Thank you, Your Radiance,” said Prompto. He didn’t smile. 

Noctis tried again. “We keep black chocobos at the royal stables in Insomnia. I’ll show them to you after the wedding.”

Prompto’s fingers tightened on the reins, and his chocobo shifted a bit in agitation. “Do you think I’m a child, Your Radiance?” he asked in his softly accented Lucian. “That you can dangle chocobos before me and I will let you drag me from my home with a smile on my face?”

“No.” Prompto’s words cut deep. Noctis took a deep breath. “I would never think that of you. All I want is for you to be happy in Insomnia, and I thought that...I thought the chocobos might make you happy.”

“Of course, Your Radiance.” There was no emotion in Prompto’s voice. “I apologize for misunderstanding you.”

“There’s no need to apologize. But I _would_ prefer it if you called me Noctis.” Noctis extended his hand toward Prompto. “May I?”

Prompto regarded Noctis’ hand, then ignored it and dismounted with easy grace, landing on the ground with barely any noise. He looked at Noctis with defiance sparkling in his eyes. 

“I do not need assistance, _Your Radiance_.”

For a moment, Noctis simply stared at him. Then he laughed. Prompto had _spirit_. That was good; he wouldn’t let the Lucian nobility run roughshod over him. 

“I can see that,” he said. “You’re a far better rider than I am.”

Prompto parted his lips, but didn’t say anything. He leaned back against his bird, and the chocobo kweh-ed and nuzzled Prompto affectionately.

“You don’t trust me,” said Noctis, “and that’s fair. But Prompto, I swear to you, as Bahamut once swore to His Iskander, that all I want is your happiness. And I will prove that to you, if you’ll let me.”

He stepped forward and took Prompto’s left hand. He peeled the leather riding glove off, slow and sensual, exposing pale skin to the cold winter air. 

The pink on Prompto’s cheeks was no longer just from the cold.

Noctis pressed his lips to the back of Prompto’s hand. “I will await you in Insomnia,” he said, his breath gusting lightly over the skin, and he felt Prompto shiver. He looked up into blue-violet eyes. “And until we meet again, you will haunt my dreams.”

He let go of Prompto’s hand, turned away, and walked back the way he came. He could feel Prompto’s gaze lingering on his back, directly between his shoulder blades, and smiled.

He was King of Lucis and Emperor of Niflheim.

He was Bahamut, and he’d found his Iskander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Noctis is meant to be kind of a jerk. He has solid political reasons for wanting to take Prompto as his second spouse, but he also sees Prompto and *wants* Prompto, everything else be damned.
> 
> The Lucian practice of having multiple consorts of not necessarily A Good Thing, nor is it necessarily A Bad Thing - it all depends on the configuration of the royal couple(s). In some cases, it's worked amazingly well. Other times, especially when there's a lot of selfishness involved, it doesn't. We'll see how it works out between Noctis, Luna, and Prompto.


	2. Interlude: Prompto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think I was going to do any Prompto POV in this, but here we are. Winter Prince Prompto for the win.

Prompto was in Skadi’s stall when Aranea found him. He’d never been the sort of rider to just hand his mount over to the grooms as soon he jumped off of her back - he liked taking the time brush his bird’s cream-colored feathers until they were silky smooth, clean the dirt from her claws, and polish her beak until it shone. The rhythm of the work was soothing to him. Something about Skadi’s sweet, faintly musty scent, the way she crooned softly and turned to nuzzle at his hair, and the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat beneath his palms never failed to set his mind at ease; and right now, he was in desperate need of peace.

Noctis Lucis Caelum. All throughout Prompto’s childhood, Lucis had been an ominous, unstoppable force that spread through Niflheim like a cancer, eating away at its strength and lands until the throne itself finally collapsed. Lucis was the reason his father had grown thinner, his hair grayer, and his eyes more haunted every Prompto saw him. Lucis had destroyed his family, and now Prompto had been given to its king as the spoils of war.

He closed his eyes and pressed his face against the warm feathers covering Skadi’s neck. Noctis’ stern, handsome face floated behind his eyelids. He could still feel the ghost of the king’s lips on the back of his hand, a shivery sensation that made his stomach tighten. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was repulsion or anticipation.

“Prompto.”

Prompto opened his eyes. Aranea was standing in the aisle outside of Skadi’s stall. The chocobo _kweh-_ ed softly at her and eyed her silver hair with obvious interest.

Prompto managed to summon up a smile. “He’s gone?”

“He’s gone.” Aranea flicked a stray wisp of hair away from her eyes and made a face at Skadi. “What did he say to you?”

Prompto shrugged. “Platitudes about how he wants to make me happy.” He rubbed at his hand. “Nothing that really matters.”

“And what did you think of him?”

“Does it matter?” Prompto turned back to Skadi and ran his fingers mindlessly through her feathers. His beautiful, faithful bird. “It doesn’t seem to.”

“Self-pity doesn’t suit you.” Aranea slid the stall door open. “Come with me.”

Prompto gave Skadi one last pat and stepped reluctantly out of her stall. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Days were short in Niflheim during the winter months, and when they emerged from the stables the shadows were already starting to lengthen. But Aranea didn’t take the path leading back up the hill toward the manor house. Instead, she set off on the path that wandered past the outdoor chocobo pen and into the woods Prompto had been riding in earlier.

“I was just out here,” objected Prompto as he hurried to keep up with Aranea’s longer strides. “And besides, I’m getting cold.”

“Getting _cold_?” echoed Aranea. She looked back at him with raised eyebrows. “You’re a child of the northern wilds. There’s no way this is too cold for you.” Her lips curved up in a mischievous smile. “You know who really can’t stand the cold, though? That Lucian king of yours.”

Prompto couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter. “Did you see how many clothes he was wearing? I’m surprised he could even walk!”

“And he was trying so hard to look like it didn’t bother him!” Aranea was laughing too, a bright, clear sound that carried on the crisp winter air like chimes. She stepped toward Prompto and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Come on. You’re made of stronger stuff.”

They didn’t stay on the path for long. They’d scarcely entered the forest proper before Aranea turned off on a trail formed by the hooves of passing leukorns. It was so narrow they were forced to walk in single file, their footsteps crunching softly in the snow blanketing the forest floor. A few brave birds darted through the pine branches that rose over their heads, but otherwise they might as well have been the only living creatures in the world.

They’d been walking for about ten minutes when they reached a rocky outcrop jutting up from the ground. Aranea went first, carefully checking for any icy patches lurking beneath the snow, and Prompto scrambled up after her. It wasn’t a difficult climb. He wasn’t even out of breath when he reached the top and pulled himself up next to Aranea.

The landscape that stretched out before them, however...that was enough to leave him breathless.

Shiva’s Mirror was the deepest, coldest lake in all of Niflheim. Legend said that when Ifrit was courting Shiva, She demanded a mirror as a courting gift. Only it could not be a simple mirror made of silver that any craftsman would be able to duplicate - it needed to be something that no  mortal hands could possibly create, a divine looking glass that was worthy of a goddess. The Infernian, delirious with love, accepted Her challenge. He caused one of His most magnificent volcanoes to erupt in a fiery cascade of molten lava, and when the peak collapsed back into itself, He went to Ramuh and begged the Fulgarian to summon a storm that would fill the new caldera with water. The Fulgarian, amused by the entire affair, complied. His torrential rains filled the hollowed out mountain and created a lake whose deep, clear waters formed an immense mirror that could never be replicated by mortal hands. And with that offering, the Infernian won the heart of the Glacian.

As Prompto stared out at the Mirror, he found it easy to believe in ancient legends about divine love and impossible tasks.The snow-capped mountains, the harsh and rugged gray cliffs, the rich blue of an early evening winter sky - every detail was reflected on the lake’s glassy surface, creating a mirror world perfect in every way. It made Prompto feel small and insignificant, nothing more than the tiniest thread in untamed Nature’s immense tapestry. He bent his head in reverence and offered a wordless prayer to the powerful forces that had created a scene of such awesome, boundless beauty.

He and Aranea stood in silence and let the immensity of the place wash over them, reluctant to disrupt the sense of sacrality with their voices. It was so cold that their breath formed tiny clouds in front of their faces, but Prompto didn’t mind. He thought he would be content to stand here forever, safe in the mountains of his homeland, and let the world move slowly around him.

But the moment couldn’t last. Aranea sighed and began to speak, her voice scarcely louder than a whisper. “Your father was not a particularly wise Emperor,” she said. “He spent too much time in Gralea. He believed that the heart of Niflheim was its technology, and its armies, and building new factories every year. Your half-brother had a similar mind.”

Prompto hunched his shoulders and nodded. Even though he’d spent most of time in the relative isolation of Silberberg, it was impossible not to know that his father was not especially beloved by the people. He’d seen the news reports about the ever-stricter rationing and how people were going hungry, how they resented the conscription of young men and women to feed the Imperial armies. He’d heard the constant barrage of messages condemning the stubborn pride of the Emperor and the Crown Prince, asking why they didn’t surrender and end the war for the sake of their people. And beneath all of it were the insidious whispers that the Aldercapt line had grown weak and corrupt, and it would be better for all of Niflheim if it was ousted from power.

Prompto tried to push all of that out of his mind and do the best he could with his own small duchy. As soon as he reached his majority at age seventeen, he opened the manor house on the four great yearly festivals and provided his people with feasts supplied from his own stores. He let the local children visit his chocobos, made sure that annual sacrifices were offered at the shrine of Shiva located just north of the town, and gave his blessing to any couples who wished to be married. He tried to be the sort of ruler the ancient Emperors had been, wise and just, and this past solstice an older woman put her hand on his arm and told him that he should have been the heir.

Prompto hadn’t been able to come up with a response. For all their flaws, Iedolas and Loqi were his family, and he loved them. He had never wanted them to lose the throne.

“They were both wrong.” Aranea extended her hand toward the unspoiled wilderness. “ _This_ is Niflheim. You understand, don’t you?”

Prompto did. How many times had he stared out at the mountains’ distant peaks and felt his spirit rise within his chest, almost as if it wanted to fly up and join the griffons that nested in their heights? Or sought the dappled shadows beneath the pine trees when his thoughts grew troubled and restless? He loved the northern wilds with an untamed ferocity. As long as the land endured, so would he.

“I understand.”

“Good.” Aranea rested her hand directly over Prompto’s heart. “You carry the soul of Niflheim within you. Never forget that, not even when you go to Lucis.”

Prompto felt tears rising in his eyes and tried to blink them away. He didn’t want to be a child crying at the thought of leaving his home. But he was with Aranea, and Aranea would never look at him with scorn. “I don’t want to go.”

“I know. But Prompto, you have to.” Aranea grabbed his hands and squeezed them tight. “Listen to me. Aldercapt, Caelum - it doesn’t really matter which bloodline sits on the throne as long as they love the country. Your father lost it, and Noctis is an unknown. But you...you can guide him. You can show him what Niflheim can be. Make him love it the way that you do, and the truest part of Niflheim will survive.”

It seemed like an impossible task. “What if I can’t?”

“Oh, you can.” Aranea laughed shortly. “I’ve seen his face when he talks about you.”

Prompto thought of Noctis’ midnight blue eyes, the way he’d pulled the riding glove off of Prompto’s hand, the low cadence of his voice as he said, _I will await you in Insomnia_ , and his stomach tightened.

“Just remember this, Prompto,” said Aranea. She looked back out over the lake. It had taken on the deep purple-blue hue of the evening sky, and a few early stars were reflected on its surface. “Don’t give him all of yourself. Always keep something just for you, so that you can remember who you are and where you came from. Don’t let him turn you into something you’re not.”

Prompto took a deep breath. His lungs were filled with the clean air of Niflheim: crisp and cold, and full of sharp sweetness of pine sap. This was his home. Noctis could give him all of Lucis, its lush greenery and black chocobos and gorgeous seaside sunsets, but it would never be his home. Home would always be here, in the mountains of Nilflheim.

“I won’t,” he said, and gave his vow not only to the Glacian, but to all of the small gods of Niflheim that lived in the stone and in the trees. “I promise.”


	3. Marriage (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be longer, but I got tired of bashing my head against this and decided to just split this part in two. Awkward wedding night is yet to come.

Prompto arrived in Insomnia on a wet, dreary day in late Martius. It was Lucian spring at its most miserable: gray skies, a constant drizzle of light rain, and a damp, penetrating chill that left the royal retinue standing on the steps of the Citadel shivering in their overcoats. The Crownsguard remained still as statues, trained to endure any sort of weather with the same unflappable stoicism, but five-year-old Princess Stella tugged at her mother’s hand and looked up at her with a trembling lower lip.

“I’m _cold_ ,” she said. “I want to go inside.”

“I know, darling.” Luna squeezed Stella’s hand. “But the car will be here in just a few more minutes, and we want to make sure His Highness knows exactly how excited we are to welcome him, don’t we?”

Stella nodded vigorously, and a few stray curls of honey-gold hair bounced against her cheeks. She’d been quiet and withdrawn when the engagement was first announced, but as the day of Prompto’s arrival drew nearer, her trepidation had gradually given way to curiosity and excitement. For the past two weeks she’d peppered her parents with questions - did the Niflheim Prince speak Lucian? Would he live in the Citadel with them? And was he too old to play with her?

Noctis smiled down at her. “He’ll see your smile and think the sun’s come out. I bet he won’t even notice the rain.”

Stella giggled, her misery momentarily forgotten. Noctis reached down to take her other hand and tried to pretend that he couldn’t feel a cold thread of water trickling down the back of his neck.

This wasn’t what he’d wanted for Prompto’s arrival. He’d wanted Insomnia to show itself at its finest: a gleaming metropolis that looked toward the future while still acknowledging the beauty of its storied past. In his daydreams, this had been a picture-perfect day shining with optimism for their union. The damp, gray reality left a sour taste in the back of his throat.

“Look.” Luna pointed ahead. “They’re coming now.”

The immense iron gates guarding the Citadel plaza swept open, and a convoy of black vehicles rolled through. In the lead was the Star of Lucis, the car that Noctis’ father gave him when he came of age, and King Regis’ beloved Regalia followed just behind it. They were still the most beautiful vehicles ever manufactured on Lucian soil: sleek and elegant, with smooth-running engines that sounded like couerls purring.

They pulled to a halt directly before the royal family. Nyx Ulric, handsome and dignified in his Kingsglaive uniform, stepped out of the Star of Lucis. His gaze went straight to Luna, and his lips twitched briefly upward in an inadvertent smile. Noctis didn’t need to look at his queen to know that Luna had allowed herself a brief smile in return.

Then Nyx’s face smoothed back into its professional mask. He moved to the side of the Regalia and pulled the door open, then stood at attention as the passengers emerged.

Ignis was first. He’d been Noctis’ official representative at the handover ceremony on Angelgard and, like Nyx, was dressed impeccably in formal attire. He took a moment to bow to Noctis, then turned and extended his hand to the person still in the car.

Noctis stood tall and drew his shoulders back. Luna schooled her features into her most radiant smile. The press photographers who had been invited to the Citadel just for this event raised their cameras to their eyes, ready to record the historic moment when King Noctis welcomed his Gralean husband-to-be.

As Prompto stepped out of the Regalia, Noctis’ breath caught in his throat. One of the traditions of the handover ceremony was the formal abandonment of all possessions that came from a foreign court. On Angelgard, Prompto had set set aside his white and crimson Gralean robes and donned black Lucian attire. The finely tailored dress coat and slacks accentuated his slim form perfectly, and the Caelum crest picked out in shimmering silver embroidery positioned over the heart let everyone know his status as _Noctis’_ betrothed.

Noctis thought it was a good look on him.

Prompto ignored Ignis’ outstretched hand entirely. He took a few steps toward the royal family, then stopped. He spun slowly in a circle, heedless of the tiny raindrops settling into his carefully styled hair, and looked around at the imposing grandeur of the Citadel plaza. His face was fixed in a mask of calm politesse that hid any traces of what he might be thinking, and the only sound was the frantic clicking of the camera shutters as they recorded his every move.

Then, at last, he turned toward the stairs and began his ascent.

He went to Luna first. He was the picture of courtly grace as he bowed over her extended hands and pressed a kiss to the back of each one, and Luna’s smile as she pulled him into an embrace was genuine. Standing so close together, they might have been cousins. Which they were, in a very distant sense; the royal lines of Niflheim and Tenebrae had intermarried more than once over the years.

As soon as he and Luna parted, Prompto crouched down in front of Stella. “Hello, Your Grace.”

Stella looked up at him with wide, dark blue eyes. “I’m called Your Highness,” she said, with all the solemn assuredness a five-year-old princess could muster.

Prompto smiled. “The oldest heir to the Ruler of Niflheim is invested with the Duchy of Gralea,” he said. “My brother, Loqi, was the Duke of Gralea, and now you are its Duchess, and are therefore addressed as ‘Your Grace’.”

Stella considered this for a moment, then frowned. “Is your brother dead?”

Someone gasped. The blood in Noctis’ veins ran cold. Prompto’s gaze flicked over to Noctis, just for a second, then returned to Stella.

“Yes,” he said. “He fell in battle. And so the title passes to you.”

Stella bit her lip and nodded solemnly. Prompto fumbled with his jacket for a moment, then pulled something out of the inner pocket. It sparkled and shone, even in this miserable weather, and Noctis realized it was a jewel suspended on a fine silver chain.

“The Niflheim crest is two dragons, but the symbol of Gralea proper is a behemoth tusk,” he said. “Wear this with pride. It was crafted with diamonds mined from Cartanica.”

It was Noctis, admitted as every camera shutter went off simultaneously, a beautifully orchestrated moment of political theatre. But as Noctis watched his daughter look down at the shimmering behemoth tusk, then up at Prompto was a radiant smile, he was sure that Prompto had meant his gift to be kind as well as symbolic.

Prompto smiled back at her, rose gracefully to his feet, and finally, _finally,_ turned toward Noctis.

“Your Majesty.”

Noctis wanted to say something poetic. Something about how the love between them would bind their countries together more surely than conquest ever could, or how the sun had come to Lucis. But seeing Prompto before him now, dressed in Noctis’ colors with tiny raindrops nestled in his golden hair, all of his words deserted him. All he could think to do was take Prompto’s black-gloved hands in his and press them firmly.

“Welcome home, Your Highness.”

Prompto’s smile remained fixed in place, but his gaze slid sideways, away from Noctis. “Thank you.”

The cameras clicked all around them. Noctis wanted them to go away so that his family have their first moment with Prompto in peace, but monarchies thrived on pageantry. All he could do was stand on the steps, Prompto to his left and Luna to his right, and smile for all the world to see.

* * *

Three days later, the rain finally stopped, although the sun still remained hidden behind a thick layer of clouds. High in the Citadel, Noctis gazed out at the slate-colored sky, worrying at the cuffs of his wedding robes, and tried not to think about omens.

The door to his quarters clicked open. Brisk footsteps crossed the floor, and a delicate hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed.

“Brooding pensiveness is good for the Council Chambers, but perhaps not for your wedding. You’ll make your poor husband-to-be think you don’t care for him at all.”

Noctis smiled and turned to his Queen. Luna was resplendent in an ivory silk gown that was elegant in its simplicity, adorned with nothing more than a repeating pattern of the Lucian crest picked out in delicate seed pearls around the hem. Her jewels were equally understated: a silver crescent moon pendant that was an heirloom of House Nox Fleuret and the pearl earrings Noctis gave her on the eve of their own wedding. The other Lucian noblewomen tended to favor gaudy, ostentatious pieces of jewelry that flaunted their wealth and status for the whole world to see, but Luna had always been above such vulgarities.

“Perhaps he won’t even notice as soon as he sees you. You’re a vision.” He reached up and touched the spray of flowers tucked into her hair. She usually wore the blue sylleblossoms of Tenebrae at official events, but these were large white looms with only a hint of deep blue-violet at the edges. “What are these? I’ve never seen them before.”

“ _Noctis_.” Luna’s sigh was full of fond exasperation. “They’re snow gentians, of course.”

“Oh.” Was he supposed to know that? “They’re pretty.”

“They’re the official emblem of the duchy of Silberberg. I’m wearing them to honor Prompto.” Luna shook her head in mock-despair, but a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Honestly, Noctis, there are times when I swear you’re completely hopeless.”

“That’s why I have you.” He took her hands in his and squeezed them. “You’ve always been the sensible one.”

“That must be it.”

They stood side-by-side and looked out over their city. It stretched out in all directions as far as the eye could see, a motley collection of graceful neoclassical facades, modern skyscrapers covered with brightly-colored advertisements, and the occasional dark swath of parkland. The Great Temple of Bahamut loomed in the far distance, its jagged spires wreathed in mist. Noctis always thought they looked like bristling spear points, as befitted the god of war.

He and Luna had been married there. The morning of the ceremony, they’d gone in a procession from the Citadel to the temple, and all of Insomnia spilled onto the streets to wish them well. It was a rare chance to celebrate in the midst of the ongoing war, and the cheering crowds threw so many sylleblossoms into the path of the royal couple that the air was filled with their heady perfume.

The city wouldn't celebrate like that for Prompto. Second consorts were married in the private Citadel chapel, not the temple, and their marriages were not seen as an occasion for public celebration.

“I hope you’re not getting cold feet,” murmured Luna. “The kitchen staff would be devastated if the feast they prepared went to waste.”

Noctis laughed. “No,” he said. “No, that’s not it.” His desire to have Prompto bound to him had never wavered; waiting for him to finally arrive in Insomnia had been torturous. But now that he was here, Noctis was beset by doubts: doubt for the stability of their countries, doubt that the Lucians would accept their marriage, doubt for their future happiness.

Everything had seemed so easy in Niflheim, when the exultation of victory was coursing through his veins. But here in Lucis, everything felt less certain.

“I’d like him to be happy,” he said eventually, keeping his gaze fixed on the rainswept view. “Even if...even if this isn’t what he wanted, I hope I can make him happy.”

“Ah.” For the space of a few heartbeats, Luna said nothing. Then she leaned her head against Noctis’ shoulder. The faint perfume of the snow gentians lingered in her hair.

“Arranged marriages don’t have to miserable.” She threaded her arm through his elbow. “Just because he didn’t choose you doesn’t mean that he’ll be unhappy. We didn’t choose each other, but we’ve managed to make a fairly decent go of it, wouldn’t you say?”

Noctis remembered when he’d been told of his impending nuptials to Luna. He’d been twenty, chafing at the restrictions that came with royal blood even as he enjoyed its attendant privileges, and he hadn’t been particularly gracious when his father told him he'd be getting married. He’d known it was coming, and figured that Luna was the most likely candidate, but he still sulked and scowled at the official press conference. The following day, almost every newspaper in Insomnia featured a headline along the lines of _SPOILED PRINCE UNWILLING TO WED._

His father was not impressed. _You know very well how important it is for Lucis and Tenebrae to remain allies_ , he said to Noctis, low and furious. _I did my best to raise a prince, not an idiot. Now behave like a prince_.

“We were friends, at least,” said Noctis. “And we expected a betrothal. But Prompto is…”

“He’s a spoil of war,” said Luna. Noctis tensed, the denial already springing to his lips, but Luna tightened her grip.

“Don’t deny it. There are plenty of political reasons for marrying a Niflheim prince, but you also _want_ him. And I can certainly see why.”

Noctis’ cheeks were hot. “Luna…”

“We’ve been married for ten years, darling. I know your tastes.” Her words carried an unmistakably wicked undertone. “But what you’ll have to do, husband mine, is make him want _you_. You might have conquered his country, but don’t expect to conquer his bed with the same ease.”

“ _Luna_.”

“What? You’re not the first ruler of Lucis to take a Consort because they saw something they liked, and you won’t be the last. But Noctis -” and now there was steel in her voice “- if you treat him with anything less than the respect he deserves, you’ll be answering to _me_.”

Noctis laughed, wry and fond. “I would expect nothing less of you.”

“Good.” Luna stepped away from him, trailing her fingers gently along his arm. “Then let’s get going. You can’t be late for your own wedding.”

Noctis reached out and caught her hand to stop her. For a moment he could say nothing at all, his voice trapped behind a wall of emotion. Then he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “You are my Queen,” he said. “And I love you.”

“I know.” Her smile was achingly tender. “Now, let’s go meet your husband.”

* * *

The Citadel chapel might have lacked the imposing grandeur of the Temple of Bahamut, but it possessed its own sense of intimate beauty. It was built three hundred years ago, just when the Solheim-inspired style of geometric rigidity began to give way to something lighter and airier, and it was a masterwork of High Renaissance art and architecture. Its six stained glass windows - each one depicting a different Astral - had been imported from the Accordan archipelago at great expense, and they were the largest surviving examples of third century Alstissian glasswork. On sunny days, the sun’s rays streaming through them made the entire chapel glow like the heart of a jewel.

But the chapel’s real crown jewel was the ceiling fresco. It depicted the moment Ardyn, the legendary first king of Lucis, received his crown from Bahamut in astonishing detail. The sunlight shimmering on Ardyn’s auburn hair, the delicate silver embroidery on the hem of his robe, the elaborate pattern etched onto Bahamut’s imposing armor - all of it was rendered with such perfection that the eye could almost believe that it was looking at reality, and not a mere imitation thereof. It was the greatest work of Aurellius of Cleigne, whose prodigious led him from humble origins to a position within the Caelum court. He’d spent three years suspended on a sling, his neck craned at an awkward angle as he painstakingly transcribed his vision onto the west plaster, and after it was completed he took his own life by swallowing voretooth poison. The story was that he never wanted his hands to suffer the indignity of creating a lesser work.

Noctis lifted his eyes to the form of his distant ancestor as he took his place at the altar before the High Priestess of Shiva, and silently beseeched the Founder King to look favorably upon the union between Lucis and Niflheim. Noctis thought he would approve. Ardyn was said to have loved all the people of Eos equally, and even though Bahamut granted him dominion over Lucis, he had wandered through all of the lands and bestowed his gift of healing on anyone who came to him.

The strains of the traditional wedding hymn filled the chapel. Noctis took a deep breath, and turned to face the the assembly.

Prompto stood in the Chapel doorway, accompanied by the King’s Shield and dressed in the formal black robes that Lucian tradition demanded. Even Luna had donned a black wedding gown when she married Noctis. She had not, however, worn a black blindfold like the one covering Prompto’s eyes. That part of the ceremony had been abolished for First Consorts two hundred years ago, during the reign of Lavinia the Wise, but Second Consorts were still required to submit to it.

Noctis had always said it was old-fashioned and degrading, a relic from the time when marriage was less of a partnership and more a means of asserting possession. And yet he couldn’t deny there was a part of him that thrilled in satisfaction at the sight of Prompto blindfolded, dressed in the colors of Lucian royalty, and being brought forward to marry _him_.

Gladio kept a steady hand on the small of Prompto’s back as he guided him toward the altar. Prompto’s posture was proud and upright, as was expected of royalty, and the parts of his face left exposed by the blindfold were calm and composed; but Noctis could see how he hesitated ever-so-slightly before each step, and how he kept worrying the fabric of his robe between his thumb and forefinger. It made Noctis’ chest ache. Just a while longer and he’d take Prompto’s hands in his, and let him know that he had nothing to fear.

Gladio and Prompto took their places at the altar, and Noctis bowed deeply to the priestess. She bowed in return and clapped them together, and the sharp sound resonated throughout the chapel.

The ceremony began.

The highest ranking guests stepped forward and formed a loose circle around Prompto and Gladio. The priestess clapped again, and the rest of the guests joined in until the Chapel was full of the raccuous rhythm. Gladio gripped Prompto’s shoulders and spun him around and around, faster and faster. Then he stopped, jerking Prompto into stillness, and took his own place in the circle.

Prompto stood in the center, breathing hard, his cheeks flushed. He took a tentative step forward. Then he began to list to the side, off balance from Gladio’s assault.

In his youth, Noctis had attended weddings where the nobles liked to turn this part of the ceremony into a cruel game. He’d stood and watched as high-ranking lords and ladies let their new spouses stumble through the crowd of guests, blind and confused, until they finally collapsed on the floor and waited for their consort to take pity on them. It was the epitome of of mean-spiritedness swathed in the cloak of tradition, and Noctis had vowed that he would never be such an uncaring bridegroom.

Now he had his chance. Noctis leapt forward and caught Prompto in his arms just before he hit the floor. It was the first time they had ever been so close to each other, and Noctis couldn’t help but notice how easily Prompto fit into his embrace. He indulged himself, just for a second, and let his fingers caress the delicate skin at the nape of Prompto’s neck.

He lowered his head to Prompto’s, close enough that his lips brushed the delicate curve of Prompto’s ear.

“I have you,” murmured Noctis. “I’ll never let you fall.”

Prompto flinched in his arms. Noctis tightened his grip.

“Never,” he said again, so softly only Prompto could hear, then nodded at the priestess to continue.

“Prompto of Silberberg, born in Niflheim,” she intoned, her voice filling the chapel. “In the midst of chaos, you have been found. Now let the darkness be lifted, that you may behold your guide.”

That was Noctis’ cue. He undid the blindfold and lifted the fabric away. Prompto looked back at him, squinting a bit in the sudden flood of light. He looked lost and vulnerable, like any young man who had been compelled to leave his home and come to a strange place, and Noctis felt the urge to just wrap him up in a cloak and spirit him away from this whole torturous ceremony.

The priestess beckoned them forward. “Now come and receive the blessing.”

Noctis barely listened to the priestess as she told the story of Shiva and Ifrit. All he could think of Prompto - the feel of Prompto’s hands in his as they recited their vows, the pale rose of his lips as he sipped from the marriage chalice. The way his eyelashes dipped down when the priestess recited the final prayer in Old Lucian, the tongue said to be closest to the language of the Astrals, the vibrant blue-violet of his eyes as he glanced fleetingly at Noctis.

Then the priestess clapped her hands a final time. Noctis stepped forward and cupped Prompto’s face in his hands, then brought their lips together. Prompto was stiff and unresponsive, holding his body away from Noctis'.

That hurt, just a little. Noctis forced himself to ignore it. He pulled away and rested his forehead against his husband’s, and their breath mingled between them as the wedding guests broke into applause.

They were wed.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompto totally had a Marie Antoinette arriving in France style handover ceremony on Angelgard. That scene will probably show up as a drabble someday.


	4. Interlude: Prompto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi?

The stone wings of Angelgard appeared at dawn, their distinctive shapes standing out in sharp contrast to the gold-pink-crimson clouds stretching across the eastern sky. Prompto had seen pictures of them, of course - the site where the Draconian forged a covenant with the first king of Lucis was famous even in Niflheim - but pictures failed to capture the full scope of their majesty. They were equal parts imposing and graceful, a relic from the age when the Astrals walked the earth, and the sight of them resonated with the primordial part of brain that recognized something divine.

He leaned against the railing of the ship and tried to fix this moment in his memory. Out here on the water, with Angelgard still in the distance, he was free. But as soon as he stepped ashore, he would cease to be Prompto of Niflheim and would become someone else, someone belonging to the King of Lucis.

“Your Highness.”

Aranea’s voice cut through the early morning stillness, and the flow of time continued. Prompto let himself linger over the view for a few more heartbeats before turning around. Aranea was dressed in her formal uniform, complete with the snow gentian of Silberberg embroidered on the chest, and her long silver hair was gathered into a high ponytail with two slender braids framing her face. She looked fierce and magnificent, like one of the sword maidens who guided warriors fallen in battle to the underworld, and Prompto had the sudden, mad urge to beg her to take him far away from all of this, to a place where he could live out his life in peace and obscurity.

An impossible dream. The last thing his father had asked of him was to face his fate with the dignity and courage befitting a scion of Niflheim’s imperial line, and that did not include running away.

Their final meeting had been more bitter than sweet. Iedolas had been removed from the Gralean palace to his country estate near the Ghorovas Rift, where he would spend the rest of his life in exile, and he barely resembled the vigorous Emperor Prompto remembered from his childhood. Iedolas Aldercapt was already in his fifth decade when he married Prompto’s mother, but he’d always carried himself with the vigor of a younger man. When he was growing up, Prompto never thought of him as old, but the loss of his throne had left his skin sallow and wrinkled, his shoulders stooped, and his eyes tired.

You are the last of the Aldercapt dynasty, he’d said, taking Prompto’s hands in his own. Prompto could feel the tremors wracking his weary body. And although our Empire is lost to us, never forget that you are of the blood of Solheim. Honor your ancestors and do nothing to sully our name.

Then what is marrying the King of Lucis? asked Prompto, his voice scarcely more than a whisper, and for the first time that he could remember, he saw his father weep.

“Your Highness,” repeated Aranea, dragging him out of his reverie. She pressed her hand to her chest in the traditional obeisance given to Niflheim royalty. “The captain says we’ll reach Angelgard within the hour.”

Not enough time. Prompto took a deep breath, fighting down the sudden wash of panic. “Of course,” he said, once he was sure his voice was steady. “I’ll go and change.”

“Do you need anything?”

The laugh that burst from Prompto’s throat was dangerously close to hysterical. “To go home?”

There was no possible answer to that. Aranea reached for Prompto’s hands and pressed them hard enough to hurt, then let go. “Don’t take too long.”

The official Niflheim raiment felt stiff and uncomfortable as he pulled it on. As the second child, born to a woman who had never been crowned Empress, he’d rarely needed to wear it, and had never quite mastered the trick of looking at ease when he was weighed down with so much finery. There was the tunic, white silk with the Niflheim crest in silver brocade and a rampant dragon picked out in rubies directly over his chest; the heavy cloak of crimson velvet fastened in place with enormous gold brooches; the knee high red leather boots polished to such a high shine he was afraid to do anything other than stand in them. When Loqi donned the raiment to address his troops, he looked magnificent. Prompto just looked like a boy playing dress up. 

Well, it wasn’t like he would be wearing it for long.

By the time he stepped back on deck, the sun was above the horizon, and the pink-gold dawn sky had turned the bright blue of a chickatrice egg. Angelgard’s wings loomed directly ahead, their vast sweep blotting out the horizon, and he could make out a cluster people clothed in Lucian black standing on the island’s small dock.

“Looks like the welcoming committee is here,” said Aranea. “Are you ready?”

Prompto’s hands tugged nervously at the hem of his tunic. “I have to be.”

All too soon, it was time to disembark. Aranea went first, striding onto Lucian soil with her customary swagger; Prompto followed more slowly, struggling to keep his diplomat’s mask fixed in place.

He recognized the upswept hairdo and sharp green eyes of the Lucian envoy who stepped forward to greet him. Count Scientia had accompanied Noctis to Gralea for the formal surrender, and he’d also been at Silberberg. Prompto knew about him, of course - he’d heard that Scientia was the real power behind the Lucian throne and the mastermind who came up with the Draconian Offensive that ultimately crushed Niflheim’s defenses. The whispers in Gralea said that his veins ran with ice water instead of blood, and his bland, aloof smile did little to alleviate that particular rumor.

“My Lord,” he said. He brushed his lips lightly against the back of Prompto’s hand, every inch the perfect courtier. “It is my honor to welcome you to Lucis.”

Prompto managed to find a smile. “Thank you.”

Scientia stepped back with a slight bow. “If you’ll follow me, please. The handover ceremony won’t take long.”

Prompto surreptitiously studied the Lucian escort as they followed Scientia away from the water. They wore heavy black overcoats trimmed with dual rows of silver buttons: the official uniform of the Kingsglaive forces. The Gralean army called them Dunkelsgatten - Spouses of Darkness - and said they slept with demons in exchange for prowess in battle. Prompto wasn’t sure if their presence here was meant to honor or intimidate him.

A large tent made of black silk had been erected in the middle of the island, right in front of the ancient stone monument marking the final resting place of Ardyn, Lord of Light. Scientia strode inside, and the Kingsglaive took up their positions at the entrance. They might as well have turned into statues, given how stoic their expressions were. 

Prompto hesitated at the threshold. The dim interior of the tent loomed before him like a pit, threatening and foreboding, and for a moment, his feet refused to move.

Something gentle tugged on his cloak: Aranea, telling him to be brave. He took a deep breath, allowed himself one last glimpse of the perfect blue sky, and stepped inside.

It was small but tastefully appointed. Beautiful embroidered tapestries depicting scenes from the Lucian Cycle covered the walls, and an elaborately carved wooden table held a decanter of orange tinted liqueur and three crystal flutes. A couch set to the side held an outfit made from luxurious black fabric trimmed with silver embroidery. Prompto’s gaze strayed toward it, then he glanced quickly away. He knew without needing to try it on that it would fit him perfectly. 

“We begin with a toast,” said Scientia as he poured the liqueur into the flutes. He passed one to Prompto and one to Aranea, then raised his own in a salute. “Prompto Argentum Aldercapt, Duke of Silberberg, scion of the imperial line of Niflheim, I, Count Ignis Stupeo Scientia, Advisor to House Caelum, do hereby welcome you into the household of His Royal Majesty Noctis Lucis Caelum, one hundred and fourteenth monarch of Lucis, Scion of the King of Light, Beloved of Bahamut.” He pressed his hand over his heart. “May it bring you joy.”

Prompto’s throat was dry. He had to lick his lips and swallow a few times before he could find his voice. “Thank you,” he said, finally, and lifted the drink to his lips. 

The liqueur was unlike anything he’d ever tasted. It was delightfully refreshing, the perfect balance of sweet and tart, like the essence of sunlight captured in liquid form. He lifted his glass to the light streaming in through the tent’s entrance, admiring the delicate orange hue.

“We distill it from Duscaen oranges,” said Scientia. “They only grow in the southernmost part of Duscae, between Schier Heights and the sea. It takes more than five pounds of fruit to yield one liter of liqueur.”

“It’s delicious,” said Prompto. He sipped the rest of it as slowly as he could, both to savor the taste and and to postpone the next part of the handover ceremony for as long as he could. 

But it couldn’t be delayed forever, and all too soon the goblets were empty. The only thing left was for him to formally renounce the last vestiges of his homeland.

Scientia bowed to him. “Your Highness,” he said. “As soon as you’re ready.”

He would never be ready. Prompto set his goblet back on the table and reached for the brooches holding the heavy cloak in place. His fingers were numb and clumsy, and he fumbled with the delicate clasps. After a moment Aranea gently pushed his hands away and took over the task, deftly removing the brooches and folding the cloak into a neat package.

He slipped the boots off next, then the tunic, as Scientia watched in silence. Bit by bit, the regalia of his homeland was stripped away, until he stood in nothing other than his underclothes. He wanted to hunch his shoulders, collapse inward and try to hide, but he didn’t dare show any weakness in the presence of Lucians. He didn’t want any future accounts of this event to say he’d been a timid milksop.

He took a deep breath, pulled his undershirt over his head, and tossed it to the side. Only one piece left. He didn’t let himself hesitate. Keeping his gaze locked on Scientia’s, he tugged his boxers over his hips and let them fall to the floor.

He shivered in the cool morning air, and his skin broke out into gooseflesh. He felt horribly exposed. But he managed to fight his way through it, pulling his shoulders back and lifting his chin, silently daring Scientia to say something.

The envoy’s gaze never strayed from Prompto’s face. “Very good, Your Highness,” he said, and gestured toward the black outfit. “If you would.”

The underwear was black silk, smooth as water against his skin. Then came the trousers and the tunic, woven from the softest, finest wool he’d ever touched. The fit him perfectly, just as he’d known they would, perfectly accentuating his slim waist and long legs.

There were no mirrors in the tent, which was probably for the best - he wasn’t sure he could bear to look at himself shrouded in Lucian black. Even though the the outfit was impeccably tailored, he felt like he was being smothered. He plucked at the collar and cuffs, trying to make it more comfortable, but the heavy silver embroidery still scratched at his skin. 

Scientia smoothed his hands over Prompto’s shoulders, wiping away imaginary flecks of dust. “You’re every inch a Royal Consort,” he said, and nodded in approval. “As soon as you’re ready, we’ll be on our way to Insomnia.” 

Say your goodbyes, was what he meant. Prompto turned to Aranea and grasped her hands.

“I leave Silberberg in your care,” he said in Nifl, and managed to find a smile. “When I visit, I expect to find it up to my usual standards.” 

“Maybe I’ll be a better caretaker than you, and the people will make me Duchess.” Anyone else would only hear the bravado in Aranea’s tone, but Prompto could detect the underlying bitterness. “They won’t even miss you.”

His answering laugh was closer to a sob. “I suspect you’re right.”

Aranea lifted his hands and pressed a kiss of fealty to them. “My Prince,” she said, in the formal, archaic dialogue that was only ever used at the most formal occasions. “You are the light of Niflheim, now and forever, and I will serve you faithfully until my dying breath.”

It took a moment to find his voice. “Thank you,” he said at last. “I only hope I will prove worthy of your gift.”

Aranea’s composure broke. She pulled Prompto close, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing tight. Prompto closed his eyes and clung back, pressing his cheek against the stiff fabric of her uniform and twining his fingers in her silver hair. He never wanted to let go.

Aranea sighed. She reached up and ruffled his hair, the same way she’d always done, and then she was gone, striding out of the tent and back the way she’d come, toward the ship that would carry her back toward Niflheim.

His body trembled with the urge to run after her. He contented himself with with clasping his hands politely in front of him and giving Scientia his best diplomat’s smile.

“Shall we?”


End file.
